The Angel
by Angel Immortis
Summary: The Galaxy has changed. Primarchs, fallen from the Emperor's light, now return. The Imperium is split and fell creatures pour forth. Yet the Imperium, in this ten thousand years of faith and fury, shall not no quietly. As from the warp come the daemons and traitors, returning for a 10000-year slumber, so to do new powers, having awaited their time to enact their vengeance.


T _he Angel awoke. It did not know when or where it was, for it had been asleep, and dead. It was once someone, once something, but now, that thing was gone, and, while the Angle shared its form, and even some of its mind with its predecessor, it had nothing like it's soul. But why had it awakened? It knew its purpose, it's fundamental being. It was a daemon, born of prayers and anger, of sorrow and cries of revenge. It was a blade, a spear, a weapon of battle. But why know had it come into being. It felt pulled, it realized, almost unconsciously, by a force as familiar to it as the very warp stuff that served as a soul. It's existence, it realized, it's coming into being, had been caused by this, the silent summon that screams across unreality. But still, it knew not why, Until it's presence was called to the a world, a Shrine World on fire. Today, this fateful, auspicious day, was an anniversary. And not any such, for names, dates, and beliefs have power in the Immaterium, and this date was a very important anniversary, for it was Sanginalia, after many had passed to arrive at this particular one, and all the galaxy was in prayer for his image-sake._

The Cardinal World of Sabas was normally a world of beauty and elegance. Covered in great cathedrals and chapels, flocks of cherubs and cyber-beasts flew through the cavernous churches and amongst the towering spires, singing graces to the God-Emperor and his Primarch sons. But the world was silent of such hymns now, and instead echoed with melodies of pain and ecstasy, for this holy world was playing host to the dark legion of the Emperor's Children. Across the city-sized temples of the Shrine World, violent acts of debauchery and horrifying excess were being carried out, terrible, unnatural crimes, beyond any word's ability to capture. This was no mere warband, for the world was no merely Shrine World, but a Cardinal World, home to covenants of Sororitas, a force easily capable of fending off most despoilers was brought low by the raiders and warriors of the worshippers of Slaanesh, for this warband was led by a warrior of great power, a general of almost no equal; the Daemon Primarch Fulgrim. And so, the warbands and legion remannents had free reign over the planet.

Within the Central cathedral Sabas, Cardinal Liborius knelt in silent prayer. Around him, thousands of men and women, priests of the Ecclesiarchy, sisters of the Adeptus Sororitas, pilgrims from distant worlds, and lowly servants of the great churches prayed with him, some strong-willed and stoic, other barely containing tears of fear. Outside, crazed screams of joy and pain rang out; laughing madman, tortured cries, the wet sound of flesh on flesh, the ringing of boltguns, and terrible, screeching music ringing out like the wails of damned spirits. While the doors of the cathedral were shut and bolted, solid barriers of stone, and no lights shined, leaving the fearful congregation in near darkness, the Cardinal knew these would be his last few moments. Soon, the Pleasure Legion would find them, and all he could hope was that his end would be fast, and painless. He gripped a laspistol, ornate and lovingly crafted, yet functional enough for his purpose. It would be useless against whatever came through any breach, but it would work to take his life. And he prayed for the EMperor's judgment and mercy in his last moments. He would take any satisfaction of his life from the traitors once his prayers were done.

Before he could finish, before he could grant himself the Emperor's Peace, the great door, engraved stone and golden effigies, shattered with a thunderous smash. Amongst the screams and tears of anguish strode forth the twisted warriors of the Third; several Astartes, their armour garish and overwhelming, grasping bolters and razor-like baldes covered in the blood of prior victims. There were five, each unlike the others. One dangled the heads of victims on it's belt. Another was covered in tubes and vials, drugs coursing through it's sullied veins. The third bore three faces on its head, each roughly sewn together one grinning, another twisted in anger, the last in tears of sadness. The fourth's armour was baroque and shining, gold clashing with silver and bronze, depicting all manner of acts of excess and sin. The final one wore skins of victims, spines stretching the still living faces of men and women. And amongst them, towering over over with grinning face and the anatomy of some twisted monster, a Daemon Prince of the Prince of Pleasure, adorned with bronzed faces and tubes more organic the mechanical. A slender-horned head rose from squat shoulders, twin tongues of rasping teeth hanging out. On its chest, it bore the breast of a man and a woman, framed with spiked gold. Four arms protruded out, two grasping slender swords resembling a long-snouted predator, the other two ending in the claws of some monstrous sea creature. Long legs, slender and powerful, supported the muscular bulk. And while it looked more beast than man, with beady eyes black as the void and the face and body of some xenos monster, it spoke in a voice as melodious as it was terrible.

"You wished to hide, in this temple of the False Emperor?" the creature cackled. "Here you kneel, in prayer to your corpse of a God. Well, do not let us interrupt your pleas. You will get much practice with us. Many do".

Striding forward, the daemon and the Astartes approached the congregation. Some abandoned their prayer, crying with fright. Others begged the servants of the Ruinous Powers forgiveness, mercy. But some, the Cardinal included resumed prayer. He clutched his pistol tightly, bringing it to his chin. With tears in his eyes, he choked out his final plea to the God of Mankind.

"Oh God-Emperor, Master of Mankind. Defend Your children, Your sons and daughters. Lay waste to those who would defile you. Destroy these heretics, traitors to Your wisdom. Please, please my lord, I beg you".

And, unknown to both Imperials and Hertatics, as the Cardinal finished his prayer, the time reached a point of great auspiciousness, for it was the 11th second, of the 11th minute, of the 11th hour, of Sangunialia, and with that, and the last prayer feeding through to the immaterial realm where the Angel resided, he awoke into the world.

A psychic wave coursed through the room. The air smelt of ozone, and both Imperials and Traitors alike stumbled and fell, their lifeblood pouring out of invisible wounds. Only the Daemon Prince, it's soul protected by malignant powers, and those in prayer were spared. The blood flowed out in a thick wave, pulled by some unseen power towards the shallow indentation in the centre. Extending out of the centre was a great pillar, supporting a majestic golden aquila. Both the daemon and the faithful were silent and still, bound by shock at the sight they were witnessing. The blood began to pool within the sunken floor, and, above, the great gold eagle began to melt, sloughing off into the crimson liquid below. Within minutes, the statue was gone, trails of liquid gold running down the marble base. While the cavorting of the Heretic Astartes still echoed from outside, the hall felt silent, sworn enemies holding their breath they stared at the ichor of crimson and gold. And then emerging from the pool came a shape, at first formless, and hidden beneath a thick curtain of blood and liquid metal, but, as it fell off in great sheets, it's true nature was revealed.

It took the body of a man, yet massive, almost reaching higher then the twisted daemon in front of them. He wore armour more decorative then functional, baroque and shaped entirely of gold. He was adorned with all manners of symbols, crowned skulls and imperial Aquilas, and around his neck rested a collar of marble cherubs which, as he watched, turned to face around and began to sing with a heavenly voice. His face was hidden behind a jewelled mask of gold, forever frozen in an expression of rage. Despite the harsh expression, and the the staticness of the mask, the face had an ethereal beauty, both handsome and sage. It his grasp, it held two weapons; in his right, a long-bladed sword of fine silver, it's hilt adorned with a great red eye staring baleful out at the world. Along the blade flickered flames, softly lighting the room. In his other hand, he held a spear, it's shaft formed of leather and gold, ending in a point shaped like a hollowed heart. And, extending out of his back in a great snowy curtain, were wings. Majestic wings, feathered and formed perfectly. The wings of an angel.

Cardinal Liborius fell to his knees, bowing and praying silent thanks. Around him, all survivors of his desperate congregation joined him, tears in their eyes, but not of fear but of joy. All knew who he was; second only to the Emperor in his holiness. A son of a god, the Primarch of the ninth. While he was the first to say his name, all had it on their lips and in their mind.

 _"_ _Sanguinius"._


End file.
